


Even If

by Laylah



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Status Effects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-14
Updated: 2009-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they did it with Basch Blinded. It was good, intense in a way that blindfolds aren't, and he clung to Vossler's shoulders like the only anchor he had. The second time was Vossler's turn, and he picked Silence. Basch thinks he's never seen Vossler moan so much with so little prompting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even If

Basch thinks probably they both knew this was where they were headed. It seems like the logical outcome of a game like this. Even If, they've been calling it. You could have me even if....

The first time they did it with Basch Blinded. It was good, intense in a way that blindfolds aren't, and he clung to Vossler's shoulders like the only anchor he had. The second time was Vossler's turn, and he picked Silence. Basch thinks he's never seen Vossler moan so much with so little prompting. Sometimes he imagines what that would have sounded like.

He picked Slow for his next turn, which was a little like being underwater, except that it was only affecting him: he could react to what Vossler was doing, but never fast enough to get the upper hand. Vossler chose Sleep after that, which Basch called off halfway through. There didn't seem to be much point to going on with it when Vossler wasn't even aware of what was going on.

Neither of them is crazy enough to think that Sap or Poison sounds like a good time, which means the next one worth suggesting is either Immobilize or --

"You could have me even if I were Disabled," Basch says. The fire in the hearth gives just enough light for him to see the surprise cross Vossler's face, and the craving that follows it.

"Are you sure?" Vossler says, as he unbuckles his mail.

Basch unlaces his shirt, pulls it off over his head, and tries to think about it with the head on his shoulders for a minute. It's not something he can really take back, if it turns out to be not what he wants. With the other stuff they've done, there was always a way to say no, wait, I've changed my mind. Disable doesn't make that easy. Basch steps out of his shorts. "Yes," he says.

Vossler looks down. "I haven't even touched you yet," he says. "You like the idea that much?"

Were their positions reversed, Vossler would say something biting, some defense of the plain desire; Basch only says, "I offered it --" and then cannot say _sincerely_, because Vossler casts the magick before he finishes speaking. His arms fall to his sides and he can but watch, mute, wanting, as Vossler finishes undressing. His blood roars in his ears, the animal panic that follows helplessness, and his cock aches.

Vossler takes his time, undressing as though there is no hurry; he teases Basch for his impatience, when they are warming each other's bedrolls in the desert, and his pace is always slower when he is the one in control. Now, when he has stripped bare -- when it's plain that he is as drawn to this idea as Basch is -- he yet stands and admires his prize.

"I will try my best to read you, like this," he says, as if Basch still needs reassurance. "I would not knowingly do you harm."

Basch would smile, if he could, but the fine control of the motion is lost to him. He steps back, instead, toward his bed. That much he can still manage, if he bends all his will toward it.

"No," Vossler says, a hand at his waist to stop him. "Not yet." He reaches up, runs his fingers through Basch's hair, takes a solid grip and pulls. Basch's hand tilts back; he cannot tense to resist the motion, even for the reward of feeling that sweet ache.

"First," Vossler says, "I want you on your knees."

That, Basch thinks, he can still do. His knees bend, and Vossler steadies him as he kneels. He can open his mouth to receive Vossler's cock, but he cannot stretch out to take it, cannot lick at the head to encourage Vossler to abandon his restraint. He cannot even moan, when Vossler feeds it to him; the desire is there, but his body will not obey.

"Gods," Vossler murmurs. He thrusts, steadying Basch with a hand on the back of his head, and Basch can only accept him, feeling how _easily_ Vossler's cock slides against his tongue, past the constriction at his throat that would on most days make him gag. The noise Vossler makes at that -- his cock thrust its full length down Basch's throat, filling it, his scent heavy in Basch's nose -- is so raw and needy that Basch fears for a moment that he will not last.

But his control is more solid than that, no matter how well this suits him; he pulls back and thrusts again, rocking in Basch's mouth, slow rough strokes. Like this there is nothing Basch can do to guard his teeth, and on some strokes they scrape the underside of Vossler's shaft -- but it does nothing to deter him, makes him tighten his grip in Basch's hair and thrust harder. Time blurs, so that Basch is uncertain how long he kneels there, reduced to these sensations only: Vossler's cock in his mouth, his own aching hard between his legs, his hands hanging at his sides, unable to take himself in hand for some relief. It's long enough, though, that when Vossler pulls out, Basch manages to lean toward him, trying to follow, to take it in again. The motion is clumsy yet, but he can manage it.

Vossler stops him. "The magick is fading?" he asks.

Basch nods, slowly and with effort. He knows how the effects leave his system, guesses he has perhaps another minute remaining before he can speak again.

"Shall I let it?" Vossler asks.

No, Basch thinks. His mouth still won't shape the word. He shakes his head.

Vossler shivers, the same way he does when Basch's breath ghosts against the nape of his neck. "Thank you," he says, and casts the magick again.

The gesture Basch might have made to answer him -- though it could not have been eloquent enough -- is stifled, dampened by the renewed coil of Mist around his limbs. He can only wait, silent, and follow Vossler's direction when a hand around his bicep guides him to rise. Where Slow fogged his mind, left him struggling to understand things as quickly as they happened, Disable leaves him alert but unable to command his body; it's maddening, yet he wants it to continue.

Vossler helps him to bed, eases him down onto his back -- could he rise unaided, he wonders? Is that too complex a task, too much strength and leverage? -- and smiles when Basch's legs fall open, unguarded. "I wouldn't have believed this could make you _more_ wanton," he says. "And yet here you are."

He retrieves the oil for their preparations from the chest beside his bed, and kneels there, in the space between Basch's thighs. "Your mouth offered me no resistance," he says. "Will this also yield so easily?"

Yes, Basch wants to say. He feels calm, open, the first flush of panic dissolved now into a smoldering need that he can do nothing to satisfy. Were he able, he would moan when Vossler's fingers enter him; instead it is Vossler who makes the noise, low and greedy as he pushes deep.

Don't hold back, Basch would say. Don't wait. Vossler is a good man, or they would not be here, like this, but the same lack of response that makes him fear he is missing some signal for _no_ is preventing Basch from adequately saying _yes_. More, Basch thinks, watching Vossler's face, praying his desire shows on his, as Vossler's fingers stretch and slick him.

"Forgive my impatience," Vossler says -- there is nothing to forgive -- as he withdraws from the preparations. He lifts Basch's right leg, hooks it over his shoulder, presses close. His cock is blunt and hard against Basch's ass.

Please. Gods, please.

Vossler pushes, slow and relentless and deep, and the breath leaves Basch's lungs with deliberate force -- the most reaction he can manage -- that's lost under the sweet broken sound of Vossler's moan. "Yes," he says. "Gods, Basch, it's -- so good, I -- I need," and Basch tries fruitlessly to flex, to pull him deeper. Let him take what he needs. He is welcome.

His left hand curls around Basch's thigh to hold him close for leverage as he thrusts, and with his right he reaches for Basch's cock. Surely he cannot mistake that hardness for reluctance. He must know this is satisfying for both of them.

When he starts to thrust, rocking deep, the moan still catches low in Basch's throat where he cannot give it voice. But the friction, the heaviness of sensation, is exquisite -- the thick heat of Vossler's cock filling him, and the rough strokes of Vossler's hand -- and if there is nothing Basch can do to hasten this pleasure, there is also nothing he can do to avoid it; all that remains in his power is to accept what Vossler gives him, to savor it and to glory in each moment of it -- so that when the reflex to grasp at the bedclothes provokes a response, his fingers curling slightly, he is surprised by it; surprised, and then resolved not to act, but to allow this to continue.

So he does not allow himself to respond, though the strength flows back to his limbs, but rather keeps still, watching Vossler take him with restraint at last abandoned to raw, selfish, breathtaking desire -- rhythm faltering in the final needy push toward completion, and the climax wracks Vossler hard enough that he looks as though he's in pain.

Basch waits another three breaths after Vossler stills before he tries his voice. "Please," he says, and his tongue is still slow with the magick but he can shape the word well enough, and Vossler starts at the sound.

"Of course," he says, and begins to stroke Basch's cock again, firm and steady. "Should I --"

"Don't pull out," Basch says, "and don't stop."

The corner of Vossler's mouth twists, wry, and he nods, doesn't stop, and after so long entirely helpless it's a relief to be able to push into his touch even as much as the position will allow -- to flex, to rock upward, to tense as he strains for it -- and the slow build before this means he's already on edge, wanting, the need coiled ready in his limbs -- and his back arches off the bed as he comes, moaning, shuddering with release.

Vossler's hand slows, stills, and then he eases free of the tangle of Basch's limbs, pulls out now that they are both satisfied. "When did it wear off?" he asks, as he stretches out beside Basch in bed.

"A few minutes before you finished," Basch says. He smiles. "You seemed to be enjoying it so, it would have been a shame to spoil the scene."

"And you?" Vossler asks -- as though he still needs to, and this is why Basch would say yes even if -- "Were you enjoying it as well?"

Basch rolls closer, settles his hand at Vossler's waist and claims a kiss. "Yes," he says. "Yes."


End file.
